


The Case of the Mistaken Horror

by Snootiegirl



Series: The Great Detective and the Army Doctor [4]
Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Doing A Favor, Established Relationship, Friendship, Hobbit Reference, Incidental Case Fic, M/M, Trip to Harrods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snootiegirl/pseuds/Snootiegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are summoned via text to help Mycroft with a mysterious task that has to be accomplished at Harrods London department store. Hijinks ensure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summoned

_MH needs our help. SH_

_Ok, when, where?_

_I'll pick you up outside the clinic in 15. SH_

_Got it._

* * *

John waited on the curb outside of the clinic, trying to guess which of the passing cabs would contain Sherlock. Sherlock would probably be able to spot me three blocks away, he mused with a small smile.

Presently, the cab pulled smoothly up to the spot where he stood, and John slid into the back beside his partner. He looked at Sherlock to try to glean more details.

Sherlock was as inscrutable as always. John smiled at it. He liked that Sherlock played his emotions close to the vest. It was something they actually did share in common. Then John frowned.

It wasn't his favorite trait when Sherlock used it to lie to John and manipulate him though. Like at Baskerville.

Sherlock sensed John's frown. He turned with a frown of his own which was more question than expression. John shook his own head slightly, smiling to dispel the negativity. Sherlock was satisfied with the answer and turned back to his mobile screen.

"Where to then?" John asked after a few more minutes traveled in silence.

"Harrods," Sherlock answered vaguely.

John didn't try to hide his surprise. He had expected some abandoned warehouse in some seedier part of the city. A public place in the middle of the afternoon was unusual. But he didn't comment. Mycroft rarely asked them directly for help. John settled into the seat to pass the time.

When they did indeed arrive in front of the enormous piece of history known as Harrods London department store, John quickly exited the cab to avoid paying the fare. Sherlock's brother, his expense. Even if he didn't mind helping Mycroft, he minded spending his money on the man who obviously had plenty of his own.

Craning up like some sort of tourist, John felt the pull in the muscles at the back of his neck as he took in the architecture before him.

"Your neck will stay that way," Sherlock informed him from much closer than John had expected. He must have had the fare at the ready before exiting the cab.

John guffawed at the admonition.

"What are you, my mum?" he shot back. But as he lowered his gaze and chin, he admitted that he did have to rub at the strained muscles a bit.

"Come on, let's go in," Sherlock said with a small tug on John's elbow.

John looked around the bustling pavement.

"We aren't being joined?" John asked as he set in motion toward the double door.

As they neared the building, a bright flash of color caught John's eye from one of the large display windows. He found himself drawn inexorably toward it. He could hear Sherlock's impatience behind him even over the chatter of foot traffic and motorized sounds of the road. John smirked but didn't stop. And Sherlock followed.

The display was impressive for its size and daring. To celebrate the film version of Tolkien's The Hobbit, Harrods had rigged up a dragon head over a vat of gold coins with a hobbit scrambling through the cache. Every few seconds a puff of steam would come from the dragon's nostrils. The lighting made the gold coins sparkle and flash. And the dragon's eyes proved almost hypnotic in their color and size.

John felt himself truly drawn to the large, scale-covered animal. He reached out a hand unconsciously. Sherlock caught him before he touched the glass however. John looked up at his partner in surprise.

"Fingerprints,' Sherlock explained.

"Oh, yeah, I guess they'd have to wash the glass all day if everyone touched," John added as he withdrew the offending appendage.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes a little.

"Evidence," he tried again.

John winced a little. "Oh! Oh, ok. I get it," he said. To prevent further mishap, he tucked his hands deeply into his coat pockets. No trace of their presence. Got it.

And then.

"I don't get it," John said to Sherlock.

"Mmm?" Sherlock hummed while texting at the speed of light.

"Why do I like the dragon so much? Isn't he the bad guy?" John continued, his brow wrinkling slightly.

Sherlock looked sidelong at his partner and companion and gave an amused little snort. John heard the sound and raised a wry eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah," he said as Sherlock slipped his gloved hand through John's arm and tugged a few short tugs. They leaned toward each other for one more brief moment before a short tilt of Sherlock's head reminded John that they were technically on a mission for His Majesty.

John restrained his eye roll only a little.

Back on track, the two men approached the double doors once more, this time intent on passing into the store itself. Sherlock broke his grip on John to hold the door for him and gesture him inside. John graciously bowed his head a little in a return salute and walked in his military gait into the superstore.

Once inside, John was assailed by numerous smells--food, perfume, leather, people, spices. This sensory assault served to fracture his attention as surely as the window display did with his sight. He found himself deliberately sniffing the air to catch more of each scent in turn.

Sherlock experienced the same sensations but reacted quite differently. He hurried to cover his nose with the sleeve of his wool coat, thereby canceling out all but the most familiar--old wool, tobacco (he had been cheating), dry cleaning chemicals, curry, and home. 'Home' could also be referred to as 'John'. He had stopped distinguishing between the two months and months ago.

Thus oriented by the familiar in the face of the voracious smells vying for his attention and nostrils, Sherlock turned to look at John. His eyes widened slightly at the awestruck look on his companion's face.

Taking pity on John, Sherlock once again hooked him to steer him in the proper direction. John started as if from a contact buzz haze and peered at Sherlock like they were separated by a thick fog.

"Come, John," Sherlock directed, dropping his arm from his face now that he had properly filled his olfactory senses with the least distracting scents currently available. "This way."

"Oi, I'm not a child. You don't have to hang on to me," John protested verbally but physically assented to the dominance. It was true what they say, department stores can be overwhelming to those unused to them.

The two passed in front of Ca'puccino, John's senses zeroed in on the scent of fine coffee and espresso. His head swiveled to follow his nose. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Sherlock to wait a moment to allow him to get a drink to go, but an impatient pull gave him his answer before the question was voiced.

Looking around the Lower Ground floor of Harrods, John started to clear the fog from his brain and wonder again what in the world they could be doing here for Mycroft anyway. His eyes scanned the men's clothing as they weaved between other shoppers in the direction Sherlock determined.

Sherlock had broken off the main aisle to weave through the merchandise, dropping John's arm in the process. John trailed behind the taller man, easily keeping track of him with his coat and cheekbones.

"Hold up now. Are we looking for someone who is stealing? Nicking pants or something?" John asked cheekily as he scanned the men's department surrounding them.

No response from Sherlock meant John remained in the dark as to their task.

Suddenly, a life-sized poster of a man in nothing but his pants in full color was standing right in front of John--or he in front of it.

Tilting his head to the left, John considered the model in his knickers. His mind helpfully supplied Sherlock's body in the same pose and same state of undress as this man. John smiled to himself when he realized that he much preferred the flawed body of his partner to the airbrushed 'perfection' of the young man before him.

It wasn't that John thought the young man unattractive. But he saw muscles gained in a gym versus muscles gained through chasing criminals and sawing at a violin for hours on end. Muscles for show or muscles for use. John had seen all sizes and shapes of men in his time in the service. And he knew too that he really had less a 'type' of man than he had a 'type' of woman.

His attention was to movement, to purpose, and to attitude of the body. Not just the look. He had long ago made peace with himself that above all, he was a 'Sherlock-sexual'. He just loved every fiber of that man with every fiber of his being. No small thing that. But simple and true as well.

Said man appeared at his elbow once again.

"John," Sherlock pronounced with just a shade more impatience than before. His eyes flickered over the man in the photo poster as well. "Straight. Married to childhood sweetheart. Grew up on a farm with sheep and cows. Had aspirations to being a school teacher but modeling was more lucrative. Hates it though."

John turned to look up at Sherlock. "That's amazing. And him in just his pants," he said, gesturing at the scantily clad man.

Sherlock shrugged. "Stuffed," he added, looking down at John. "Sorry, there was one more deduction there than I anticipated."

John sniggered at the implication and took one last fleeting glimpse at said 'stuffing'. He knew first-hand that that wasn't something he had to worry about with Sherlock.

They resumed their trek through the store, leaving the young man alone with his underwear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to confess that this chapter took some time to get together. I've never been to London or Harrods so I've been researching the store layout and such. And I write in fits and starts between lunch breaks and after the kids go to bed. Because of that, sometimes I forget what I have written previously except in idea.
> 
> The part in this chapter where Sherlock cautions John against leaving fingerprints on the store window (Oh, I get it) and the next part (I don't get it) was completely _unintentional_ but just too funny not to keep. I hope you agree with me. A confused John is quite adorable anyway.


	2. Expedition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John continue their journey into Harrods, up the Egyptian elevator, and smack dab into adventure. As you do.

Expedition

John didn't see the Egyptian escalator properly until they were closer to it due to his angle behind Sherlock's taller (and big, thank you very much) head. He had read about it of course and seen it from a distance in his few forays into Harrods in the past. This might be a treat, he thought to himself.

The memorial to Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed at the base of the escalator shone under bright, hot lights. Sherlock didn't spare it a glance nor slow his gait as he swanned past. John took in as much as he could while moving at the pace of legs longer than his own.

John ruled out someone who was threatening to deface or vandalize the Memorial as the reason they were currently braving the late afternoon foot traffic inside the store. That sort of thing seemed unlikely to attract Mycroft's attention. Unless explosives were involved. John pulled his coat tighter around his body, a sort of reflex.

Sherlock stepped onto the escalator like he owned it and all he surveyed. Once stationary on a step, he turned to look down at John. John raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Most expedient, plus I can deduce while we go up. The woman opposite, for instance," Sherlock informed him.

John looked at the woman in question. John saw mid-50s, well-dressed, nose-in-the-air.

"Her son just proposed to his girlfriend. She clearly does not approve of the intended bride. Coming from the Ground Floor where the jewelry is sold. Even though she doesn't approve, she couldn't bring herself to purchase a substandard, in her opinion, gift as an engagement present. See how she holds it away from herself as if the mere touch of the bag to her person will set her clothing to flames," Sherlock murmured to John.

"Extraordinary," John breathed.

"Fairly obvious," Sherlock's mouth said while his body posture preened and shivered with the well-landed compliment. John reached up and took Sherlock's hand once again and squeezed gently. Sherlock turned to look at John again with a small, private smile reserved just for him.

"You still haven't told me what we're looking for," John reminded him.

"Looking for?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, what are we doing here? What are we looking for?" John clarified.

"No, we're picking up," Sherlock told him.

"Picking up? As in accepting delivery?" John asked, thoroughly confused. Surely Mycroft had a platoon of minions to do such things for him.

Sherlock hummed in agreement as he extracted his mobile from the deep recesses of his coat.

"Why did we have to help with this particular errand?" John asked then.

"No one else available, apparently."

"No one." John was really starting to be incredulous about this circumstance of no one available.

Sherlock looked up at John from his mobile. He turned the screen to face John, and John read:

MH: No one else available.

"Ok, well, that explains it, doesn't it?"

"Did you know that although sex was a fairly important and pervasive part of ancient Egyptian culture, their pictography almost always depicted one of the sexual partners as an animal?" Sherlock announced to everyone within hearing distance.

John's eyes widened and he looked around himself to see a mother with two small children, a young couple who had dropped each others' hands, and an older gentleman with a decidedly lascivious smile on his lips. John closed his eyes tightly, willing Sherlock a modicum of social modesty. When he opened his eyes again, they fixed on the detective smirking at him.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked, looking more amused with himself than abashed at his behavior.

John pinched the bridge of his nose in an oft used gesture. "Sherlock," he sighed. "While I find your vast knowledge of interesting things--um--interesting, you really need to assess your surroundings before you spout things like that."

"Well, the artists who painted this escalator should have avoided it too then," Sherlock remarked, pointing to a painting that could be construed as something sexual.

"Ah," admitted John. "I see what you mean." He acknowledged that Sherlock could hardly be expected to not comment on something when it was right in front of him. He squeezed his hand again and dropped it. "Well done, then." he conceded.

Thus appeased, Sherlock turned his attention from John and the artwork, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and resumed his perusal of their fellow passengers.

John looked around curiously. It wasn't his first trip to the famous department store, but it was the first without a shopping agenda of his own. And his typical shopping agenda was to locate and buy what he needed and leave. The menswear being conveniently located on the lower ground floor made shopping an in-and-out experience.

This time, he found that he didn't mind actually looking around at the building, the people, and the atmosphere of the giant store. His head eventually tilted back to look up toward the five floors above him.

Steady, Watson, he reminded himself. You aren't here for a holiday. Whatever Mycroft needs procured must be important, not to mention sensitive. Otherwise, he would have found someone to pick it up for him.

As soon as they reached the precipice of the ground floor, Sherlock stepped off and broke into a trot. John barely had time to register the strange behavior (strange being relative with Sherlock) before he too broke into a light jog to catch Sherlock up.

John couldn't tell what Sherlock was pursuing or what he had seen. The seemingly endless glass counters of all sort of jewelry under bright lighting whizzed past in a blur to John. He couldn't be bothered to tarry over the cuff links or the engagement rings--not that he would have under normal circumstances, but he had been curious about what people were looking at and purchasing.

So he kept on Sherlock as usual. He almost crashed into the taller man's back when the detective came to a screeching halt in front of a relatively impressive display of men's watches.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John panted after the exercise and inevitable adrenaline flooding his bloodstream. "What can I do?"

Sherlock placed a restraining hand in the middle of John's chest without even looking back at him.

"You might want to empty your pockets, sir," Sherlock intoned, drawing up to his most imposing height. His comment was directed at an older man who was holding an expensive-looking watch. He was also wearing an equally expensive-looking suit.

_Crony of Mycroft's_ , John wondered.

The salesperson behind the counter went apoplectic. John could certainly understand why. The gentleman buyer started spluttering about "I never" and "Who do you think you are" in response to Sherlock's suggestion.

To which the detective replied, "I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. And you, sir, are pocketing those watches as quickly as possible." Sherlock crossed his arms, looking smug.

At this point, the salesperson recovered enough to contradict Sherlock.

"Do you know to whom you are speaking?" she asked, hands on her hips and shrill in her voice.

Sherlock turned on her immediately.

"And do you know how few salespeople would use 'whom' correctly if not for listening to it from this man's mouth on a regular basis?" he threw back at her. "You are in on this escapade as well. Therefore, I ask you to step back from the counter yourself."

Sherlock gestured to someone John couldn't see. He wondered if it was one of Mycroft's regulars who he and Sherlock were working with, unbeknownst to John. Were they really here to catch someone shoplifting watches?

_And why would Mycroft care?_

Several apparent shoppers appeared from the direction Sherlock had gestured. John realized they were probably undercover security agents. Trust Sherlock to pick them out of a crowd as if they had markers visible only to him.

John stuck his hands in his pockets and started to feel useless. The feeling didn't last however.

As soon as Sherlock rattled off his deductions, the shopper's pockets were turned out and emptied of a shocking amount of all sorts of jewelry. The purse of the salesperson also yielded a veritable bounty of booty. John was just about to marvel at Sherlock's ability to see this situation from at least forty meters away when he was cut off.

Sherlock spun on his heel and pronounced, "Come, John." And John followed.

After enough steps to get them out of earshot, John called to Sherlock.

"Hey, slow down, will you, you great long-legged git."

Sherlock slowed his steps fractionally.

"So was that what we were called in for?" John asked, breathless.

"Obviously not, John. I just happened to deduce the facts and decided to give the locals a hand," he said as he ushered John back onto the escalator. "I didn't retrieve anything, did I?"

John turned to look at his companion. Smart arse. John felt his cheeks flushing both from the exertion and the frustration that was building up. A department store errand for Mycroft, random Egyptian sex facts, and now an impromptu shoplifting bust. Really, John had had a full afternoon schedule of patients he had had to foist off onto a colleague.

"Sherlock," John enunciated in his best I'm-getting-annoyed-with-you-so-you'd-better-listen-closely voice. It worked.

Sherlock stopped all nervous texting in favour of turning his whole attention onto his companion. He even went so far as to step down onto the step below John so that they were more face-to-face.

"John," he returned in his I-am-understanding-that-you-are-peeved-therefore-I-am-contrite-and-conciliatory voice. At least the contrition was sincere, thought John.

"Will you tell me what we are doing here?" John pronounced through clenched teeth.


	3. Illumination?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. But full of emotional rollercoasters nonetheless.

"I know as much as I have told you, John," Sherlock said.

John's eyes narrowed. "And no more?" he clarified.

"We have been summoned to help someone who has helped us on innumerable occasions in the past. I felt it--" here he dithered a moment, reaching for the right word "--good karma? to answer the call. I did not see it as an undue burden on either of us."

John deflated a little at Sherlock's words. 'Undue burden.' Yes, perhaps it wasn't an undue burden to help Mycroft after he had helped them at Baskerville. But John was still a little steamed at him putting Sherlock in Irene's path though.

John shook his head a little to clear it. By this time, the escalator was cresting the first floor which sparkled with untold displays of women's clothing. He had just decided to accept his fate as tied to Mycroft as long as he was tied to Sherlock (sharing Sherlock's fate, not such a terrible thing then) when Sherlock hopped off of the elevator and strode onto the floor once again.

"Finally," John muttered under his breath. He stepped off next to his partner and surveyed the layout of the floor. To the right were overcoats and outerwear. To the left, night wear. Sherlock began walking at a surprisingly leisurely pace this time.

To Sherlock, he asked, "Ah, clothing. Something special on the side. Wants it to be a surprise? That would explain why 'no one else was available,'" John smiled a conspiratorial smile at Sherlock who looked back at him blankly.

"Why would it need to be a surprise?"

"Birthday? Anniversary?"

"I don't think that there is a special occasion."

"Ah, yes. Better to be spontaneous."

"You are behaving very strangely, John."

"Well, I'm just surprised is all. I wouldn't have pictured us called in to pick up a sweater or some knickers."

Sherlock blanched a little at the mention of knickers. John smiled at him.

"I thought I'd look at the new scarves for Mummy," Sherlock informed his partner. "I'd rather not discuss women's underwear at this moment, thank you."

John couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing.

"Sherlock Holmes! Did I embarrass you? This must be the second auspicious day in our life. First you beg me, and now you blush!" John teased.

"John. I'll have you know that I am not routinely called upon to discuss women's undergarments in a section of a large department store that sells such garments. However--" Sherlock was now flushed with all the dignity he could muster around himself. This just made John laugh even harder.

So Sherlock evaded. He stalked off into the women's clothing at a clipped pace with his long legs that he knew John would never be able to keep up to unless he jogged. And John didn't want to be seen jogging through women's clothing any more than Sherlock wanted to discuss knickers.

John's laughter died down as he watched Sherlock get smaller and smaller in the distance.

"Bugger," he muttered to himself after wiping away tears of mirth. He knew he was in for a bit of roaming around until he found Sherlock or a bit of standing around back at the escalator until the man with no sense of humor about himself deigned to show his face again. 

After five extremely long minutes had passed and John had exhausted his patience with both the color pink and the fashion statement made by ruffles, he decided to cut his losses and make his way back to the escalator. If he were lucky, he thought, there would be a bench there for other wayward partners who awaited the appearance of a lost companion emerging from the clothing jungle victorious from the hunt.

But John wasn't so lucky this time.

He tried standing at parade rest. Then he stood at attention. He counted the minutes in his head. Then he took a short circuit round the open area just at the top of the escalator, careful to avoid anyone else getting off or getting on to ascend to the next level of consumer hell that was this damned department store (as he had started referring to it in his mind).

Finally, somewhere between cursing shopping in general and this shop specifically, John spied Sherlock taking his bloody time returning to the escalator.

"Ah, John, there you are. I've been looking for you," Sherlock said as he came into speaking distance.

"You've been--?" John sputtered. "Looking? For me?" His hands automatically went to his hips in indignation.

Sherlock slowed down even more in his approach. The rare and wild John stood between Sherlock and the escalator. Best not to antagonize the creature.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"And just where were you looking, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock flashed John a satisfied smile.

"Well, I started from your last known location and executed a perfectly asymmetrical diagonal search pattern based on the Thames and Lye kidnapping in West Dorsetshire from 1912--" Sherlock said hurriedly, knowing full well that he had to get as much of his brilliance out before the wild John pounced on him.

John pounced. He put a hand up.

"Just. Stop," John said. He pointed to the escalator. "Can we please just go?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Of course, John. I found the perfect scarf," he replied as he held up a small bag with Mummy's gift in it.

They strode to the escalator and stepped on, side-by-side.

"Did you know that the Great Pyramids were actually just grain storage bins?" Sherlock asked John.

"No, I didn't. Really?" John responded.

"No. I just wanted to make sure you weren't still peeved with me," Sherlock said, and he tucked John's hand into the crook of his elbow.

John just held his tongue and glared.


	4. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John really need to work out some of those department store blues. This is a Johnlock slash story after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's an extra long (and schmexy) chapter to make up for the short one and the long wait. I won't toy with your emotions and say that real life had intervened and prevented me from writing. The truth is that I'm writing so many things that I get back to this when inspiration strikes. And otherwise, I write what other things inspire me at the moment. Plus, I have a full time job, a family, blah, blah, blah.
> 
> Happy New Year!

"Ok, so not for someone else?"

"No, not a gift. A personal purchase."

"Ah."

John had a moment of abstract terror.

"Not. Personal. As in . . . .?" He trailed off.

"As in what?" Sherlock volleyed with impatience coloring his tone.

As the duo crested the next floor, John saw the words 'White Sale'.

"Linens, then?" John asked aloud. Then he reconsidered. "No."

Sherlock frowned at him slightly.

"No, what?" He asked.

"No, I am not picking up and hand-delivering linens! It's too--" John scrambled for the word as he put physical distance between himself and Sherlock. "Intimate," he finally hissed.

"Intimate? Bed sheets? I would say they are utilitarian at most," Sherlock returned, closing the gap between them again.

John held out a staying hand. "No," he shook his head and squinted his eyes. "No, they are definitely intimate. People spend a third of their lives on them, copulate on them, conceive their children in them, drool on them! And I don't want to picture--"

Sherlock interrupted him. Of course.

"I highly doubt--"

But John continued undeterred.

"Nevertheless! I don't want to have any part of this kind of--" He held both hands up now to ward off the bad mojo associated with knowing what sort of bedsheets the British Government slept in. Why couldn't he just order them from a catalog if this was such a sensitive errand? John wondered to himself.

Suddenly weary from the heat of the building, the work of the day, and the emotional strain of second-guessing Sherlock for the past forty-five minutes, John didn't even finish his sentence. He slumped his shoulders and looked at the tile floor.

Sherlock watched him silently, deducing all of these feelings, thoughts, and sensations. He moved cautiously, wary of spooking the wild John this time. His facial features smoothed and softened in a way specifically reserved for his John. Although John did not see the gesture until Sherlock's outstretched hand was within John's visual radius with his head bowed.

John's smaller hand reached out and intertwined with Sherlock's longer fingers. When the blond man looked up, it was a little sheepishly. He knew that he was being more than a little childish, something that Sherlock usually took care of for the two of them. But John felt like he was due for an outburst. Even a small one.

He smiled at his partner.

"Think about what we get up to on our sheets," he reminded Sherlock. The taller man smiled slowly and hummed approval of said activities.

"But it's not like doing the wash post-use, is it?" Sherlock asked him, keeping his smile and if anything adding some salaciousness to it.

John snorted. "No, I suppose not," he agreed.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's fingers and drew closer, risking looming over John. 

John started to feel himself warm up even more than the department store heat and crowds had done. But this heat was never unwelcome. He felt his breath start to come just a little short, his cheeks flush, and his scalp start to tingle with anticipation.

Where Sherlock's fingers clasped and caressed John's, the electricity between them shot up both arms. John reached out to claim the other hand sticking out from the sleeve of the heavy wool coat. 

That coat, scoffed John mentally. It was utterly ridiculous in its ostentatiousness, but it suited Sherlock every inch. John liked Sherlock's pretension. With most people, his attitude came off as unearned hubris. A shield for someone who had nothing to offer beside the illusion of competence.

And then he took their breath away with his brilliance. John loved every moment of it.

Sherlock's proximity was starting to melt away John's annoyance and fatigue.

"I guess I'm not cut out to be a department store shopper," he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned and chortled deep in his chest. "I guess not," he agreed.

By now, they had equally pulled each other flush so that their breath was mingled. Sherlock's grin slid into a mischievous leer.

"Do you think they have any samples that need testing?" he proposed. "Some bed sheets in need of a testimonial?"

Now it was John's turn to chuckle. "I doubt it." He looked around. "But, I could use a stop in the gents." His eyes sparkled like sunlight bouncing off the ocean. Sherlock's breath caught this time.

John couldn't help another giggle. He had surprised Sherlock by taking him up on the offer which was probably only about forty percent real. But John figured that he might as well have a spot of fun on this horrible errand for Mycroft.

What he had planned was a touch illegal, but Mycroft could deal with that as well. It would serve him right, asking John and Sherlock to run around picking up his dry cleaning or aftershave or whatever they were doing. It was just irking John every which way.

So what he needed was a distraction. Something to take his mind off of his annoyance and the damn heat of shopping bodies. John cast his eyes around the taller man to see if there was any signage pointing out the way to the loo. He spotted one shortly and gestured with his head.

"This way," he said.

"John, are you sure?" Sherlock asked, not hesitant but assessing John's motives.

John smiled up into his partner's face. Then he popped up onto his tiptoes and plopped a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Yep."

Sherlock didn't need any more convincing. He did, however, remove his hand from John's. When John questioned him with a raise of eyebrows, Sherlock gestured with his chin for John to go first. He would unfailingly follow. But entering separately would look less suspicious.

John grinned and walked with his military precision and just a bit of a jaunty hop to his step toward the bathroom on the second floor of Harrod's Department store. His mouth was already beginning to water, and his cock was fluttering with interest that had started with Sherlock's flirting.

John was still astonished at how good a flirt Sherlock could be--and not just when he was acting. They seemed to have got a knack for it with each other. Other people might not see their particular brand of flirting as flirting per se. Sometimes it was downright arguing with a touch of shouting. But it worked for them.

Flirting. Foreplay. It had all been there from the beginning. And now they got to indulge it any time they chose. Like now, for instance.

John pushed open the door and found an immaculate bathroom that was also blessedly empty of other patrons. There were three urinals and only two stalls. John chose the stall farthest from the door. Once he entered and closed the door behind him, he looked up and into the corners of the room.

No visible cameras there. He wouldn't put it past Mycroft to have cameras behind the mirrors, but at least all he would be able to see were John and Sherlock's feet (and possible someone's calves and knees) from the mirrors.

John leaned back against the wall of the stall and waited for Sherlock to enter. He couldn't help palming himself just a little in anticipation. Sherlock was really the most compatible lover John had ever had. He secretly suspected the emotional and occupational connection had a lot to do with it.

But then there was more to it than just the friendship and love they had built or their shared need to run around London chasing criminals. They were best friends, colleagues; they respected each other's opinions and skills. They trusted each other implicitly in every situation, without need to confer. They almost seemed of one mind.

And they were most definitely almost of one body. Sherlock's voracious sexual appetite had surprised and delighted John. He had been prepared to have to compete with the Work for attention and favors, but he almost suspected sometimes that it was the other way around.

John's thoughts of his sexual exploits with Sherlock brought his erection to full capacity. When Sherlock pushed the door of the room open, John's cock twitched. He reached for the lock on the door and swung it open as if he was just exiting the stall.

Just in case it wasn't Sherlock.

Luckily, it was.

Sherlock backed him up to his previous location, and locked the door himself. He pressed his groin to John's, and John could feel the answering erection against his own.

"Eager, are we?" he teased Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth moved close to John's ear. "For you, always," was his breathy reply. John shivered as the sound raced down his spine and settled in his bollocks.

Sherlock began nipping at John's earlobe as John's hands came up to snake around his sides, underneath the coat.

"You know I love it when you wear the coat," John whispered.

Sherlock hummed an affirmative and continued to kiss and nip down John's neck.

John gave him a playful slap on the back with one hand. "Oi, no marks today," he reminded the detective.

"Yes, John." 

John could feel his brain start to go offline as Sherlock took him apart kiss by kiss. Sherlock's long fingers undid a button at the top of John's shirt and then parted the fabric. His lips rubbed lightly against the find downy hair he found. John choked down a groan.

"We should probably hurry," he said.

"Yes, John."

With that, Sherlock undid John's belt and unzipped his jeans. John mirrored the actions on the consulting detective. Each man moved with the confidence of familiarity. John knew how Sherlock liked to be held. Sherlock knew how John liked to be stroked. Each one found his prize right where it had been tucked away and awaiting the next encounter.

With the weight and silk of Sherlock in his hand, John occupied his other hand with pulling Sherlock's stupidly tall self down for a proper kiss. Their lips met softly but quickly became more urgent as their hands increased in pace and vigor.

John's tongue traced the inside of Sherlock's lips before sucking the bottom one in between his teeth. Their heads angled at the same moment to deepen the kiss and tangle their tongues even further. Sherlock's free hand had made its way into John's hair as well.

So they stood in the small bathroom cubicle, John against the wall and Sherlock standing free, with each others' tongues on foray outside of their home mouth, and each others' hands down each others' pants. John's brain had just enough brain power left to paint the almost ridiculous teenager picture they made.

He snickered in to the kiss which was just as well because he needed to breathe anyway. Sherlock was not quite as amused at the displayed mirth.

"Yes, John?"

"Sorry, it's just we have our own home, our own bedroom and bed. We don't have to do this in a public loo like a couple of desperate teenagers. It just struck me as funny. I'm sorry. Continue," John explained.

He was sorry because he had stopped stroking Sherlock when he started laughing. To make up for it, he pulled his hand up and did the little twirl trick that he knew the other man liked. Sherlock's eyes rolled into his head a bit, and John twirled over the silky head of Sherlock cock once more.  
"Better?"

"Yes, John-"

On a third twirl round, John resumed the snogging. Sherlock had yet to resume his hand movement, but John knew that the 'twirl' often left Sherlock little motivation to do anything but experience it. John liked affecting Sherlock so much.

After another round of deep kissing, Sherlock started to curve his back and thrust into John's hand. John pulled back to watch the moment. Sherlock came with one great squirt and several smaller ones. John did his best to catch everything to keep them as clean as possible.

Then he had to move quickly to catch his partner before he hit his head on the opposite stall wall. Sherlock was able to maintain his rigid posture during his orgasm, but the bone weariness afterward sometimes overwhelmed him a bit. John held on with both arms and kept his sticky hand clear of the coat.

After another minute, Sherlock regained his footing. He had kept his hand wrapped lightly around John, but with the other, he pushed himself upright from the wall. He shook his head once to clear his vision. As John smiled at him, he leaned in for a soft but deep kiss.

"All sorted?"

"Yes, John."

John gestured with his sticky hand toward the toilet paper dispenser. Sherlock reached back and procured enough (and then some) to clean John up until he could properly wash his hand. As John cleaned and tossed the paper into the toilet, Sherlock tucked himself away again.

"Hey, now, maybe I wanted a good view," John mock complained.

Sherlock's lazy smile showed just how much good his orgasm had done him. He undid his trousers again and pulled his spent penis out through the slit in his boxer briefs. John couldn't help himself.

He laughed.

Sherlock's deep chuckle joined him.

"All right, put the little general away," John said, waving his hand in the general's direction. "But hurry up and get back to business."

"Yes, John."

Sherlock resumed his grip on John. Now that he had been taken care of, he could give more attention and concentration to John's body anyway. Sherlock began at the base of John, feeling the veins under his sensitive digits.

John loved being the sole object of Sherlock's attention. All of that great mind focused just on how to get John off? Brilliant by anyone's definition.

As John started to relax into the pleasure again, Sherlock moved to squat. He wouldn't put his knees on the floor of a public W.C., but he could get a better view of his workspace. His nose joined his hand on the way up John's cock.

Nuzzling. Another bit of Sherlock trivia. He loved to nuzzle John. Neckline, hipbone, ribs, cock, back of knees. Sherlock liked to rub his nose and his cheeks against the various sensitive areas of John's body. And John reveled in it as well.

Keeping his late day stubble away from John's sensitive cock head, Sherlock stuck to his nose and lips. He retracted the foreskin just a bit more and placed a sweet kiss on the head. Then his tongue snuck out to steal a taste of John. John's head fell back against the stall.

The next thing John felt were those luscious lips slipping overtop and around his cock head. The heat of this man's mouth, thought John. And that was all he was capable of thinking. He opened his eyes and looking down into the silver depths of the man at his feet.

Sherlock's lips were stretched fairly thin around John's cock. When Sherlock caught John's eye, he gave a significant suck to the head. His tongue played at John's frenulum while he sucked.

"Oh, yes, suck me," John muttered as he watched. "I love to watch you with your lips wrapped around my cock. Suck me dry, Sherlock."

The dirty talk had evolved between them as well. Sometimes it worked; sometimes not so much. Sometimes they started giggling and couldn't keep with it. This was not one of those times.

Sherlock hummed his appreciation of the encouragement. He kept his suction steady, bobbing his head. One hand steadied John's erection while the other cupped and stroked his balls that had quickly pulled up to his abdomen. Sherlock's neatly trimmed nails brushed through the wiry hairs lightly, making John's thighs tremble.

"Gonna come soon," John managed to choke out. Sherlock did not comment but kept up his work.

John failed to hold back the groan that accompanied his ejaculation into Sherlock's mouth. He felt like his whole body was exiting his cock and being noisily slurped down by Sherlock. John had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the stall door to keep from ending up on his ass on the floor. Sherlock saw the movement and wrapped an arm around John's hips to help as well.

All the while, he continued the steady sucking pressure.

"Ooh, ooh. Stop, please," John finally had to concede. The stimulation was too much.

Sherlock allowed John to slip from his lips slowly and not without a goodbye kiss. Each hipbone received a kiss as well. Then Sherlock pushed himself upright without losing his grip on John for safety's sake.

John opened his eyes and turned his lazy grin onto his partner. The grin was met with a matching one. Sherlock leaned in until their foreheads touched. Then he nipped at John's lips.

"Just what I needed," John told Sherlock after a short bout of sweet kisses.

"Yes, John."

"Ooh, if only I could get you to be so compliant at other times and in other ways." John shook his head ruefully.

"Yes, John." Sherlock smirked.

"Back off now, you git. I want to get this whole thing over with--the shopping errand that is." John clarified his statement as he tucked himself back into his pants and trousers. Sherlock exited before John had his belt fastened again.

When John joined him in front of the sinks, Sherlock was messing about with his curls. John washed his hands and watched the other man with an amused expression.

"Messed them up, did I?" he asked.

Sherlock was done with compliance. He gave John a look in the mirror of pure disdain, and said, "Come along, John." He strode to the door, yanked it open, and disappeared.

"I thought I just did," John called after him and snickered at his own joke.

Right, he thought, back to business. And not the fun kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I'm marking this as five chapters. I think the next chapter will wrap this up and finally reveal what the hell Mycroft needed with John and Sherlock anyway. Can't wait? Me either!


	5. Mistaken Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we get to the bottom of this very mysterious errand for MH.

After an uneventful ride one more floor on the escalator, they arrived at their destination.

Third floor: furniture and electronics.

"We're here," Sherlock announced over his shoulder. He was texting furiously again.

As he started off, he pocketed the phone and informed John, "Toward the south, apparently."

"Right," John said, as he adjusted himself surreptitiously while walking. He had definitely reached the age where he preferred to sleep after an orgasm and in his own bed.

As John walked, he started to think about his earlier behavior. And he flushed a bit. He really was being awfully petulant about this errand. He had been spending too much time with Sherlock lately, apparently. Time to call round to the gents for a bar night of loud laughter and sloppy drinking. Where men were men, and Sherlock excused himself from attending.

John shook his head, dispelling his shame a bit. So he was a little short-tempered. That was nothing new. And it was certainly not Sherlock's fault that Mycroft had called them to travel to the lofty heights of an overly-warm department store. John resolved to make up his earlier outburst to Sherlock with a nice Vietnamese takeaway and snagging on the couch.

Some of Sherlock's favorite things.

So resolved, John felt like himself again. Not agitated. Not impatient. Certainly not aggrieved. He was full of purpose to get on with it and get the hell out of here.

As they passed the flat-screen telly display, John caught sight of himself and Sherlock in the video camera set up in front. Good thing they weren't trying to keep a low profile, he thought. They walked past stereos and displays of expensive electronic equipment that John couldn't even fathom having enough time to tinker with. BBC1 was enough for him on the odd night in.

And then suddenly, they were standing in front of a furniture counter. The pleasant man behind the counter looked up from his keyboard with a pasted-on smile. The smile said, please god let his be my last customer of the day.

"May I help you, sir?" he said to Sherlock.

"I'm looking for--" Sherlock began and then broke off.

John turned to look in the direction that Sherlock had been.

Someone was wending their way toward them. Someone petite. With mousy brown hair. And a distinctly un-feminine coat. Someone.

Molly? Molly Hooper? What was she doing here?

"Ah, there you are," Sherlock pronounced.

"Yes, here I am. Thank you again," Molly said, breathless as she stopped before them. She had apparently been hurrying to get to them.

And, why, again?

John stood there, mind a jumble of questions and thoughts. He couldn't catch any of them.

Molly turned to the sales clerk and produced a receipt. He accepted it and immediately began typing on the keyboard.

Molly turned back to Sherlock and John.

"I'm really very thankful that you were available," she said, her eyes darting between Sherlock and John. After looking them both in the eyes once, she dropped them to her feet as usual.

"Just," said Sherlock. He had his phone in his hand again (was that thing on some sort of tether?) and was looking at the screen.

Finally, John found his voice.

"Hullo, Molly. What are you doing here?"

She smiled shyly at him.

"I had the receipt. I meant to give it to Sherlock before but forgot. So I came along anyway."

"Receipt?" John repeated, feeling for all the world like a green bird perched on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock?" John appealed desperately to the detective.

"Yes, they wouldn't release it to us without the proper paperwork," Sherlock confirmed.

"Release?"

Polly wants a cracker and a damned explanation!

"Yes, John," Sherlock said with impatience. "They wouldn't give the chest to us without the receipt that it was actually purchased."

John looked between Sherlock and Molly for a moment. She still had the shy smile; he the pout of disdain.

"I'm sorry if it was an inconvenience--" Molly started to say, but Sherlock interrupted her.

"No, as I pointed out to John, this isn't an undue burden, and you have helped us many times in the past," Sherlock said.

"Hold up!"

Sherlock and Molly turned to look at John with surprise at his loud outburst.

"We're here to help? Help? Molly? Molly Hooper?" John spluttered both verbally and with saliva. "Molly Hooper!"

Both of his companions looked at John as if he had sprouted a second head.

"Molly Hooper! MH! Not Mycroft? Not Mycroft Holmes!" John continued to speak very loudly. Other people were starting to look at him in curiosity.

Sherlock and Molly exchanged a look.

"No," Sherlock ventured softly. "Not Mycroft."

John went stock still. Only his eyes moved from Sherlock to Molly and back again.

In the meantime, Molly's linen chest was brought from the stock room and placed on the floor at their feet. Two stock boys we're needed to carry it. It was obviously too large for Molly to carry all by herself.

As soon as the store personnel cleared the immediate vicinity, John pointed to the chest.

"We're here to carry furniture?" he hissed. "I left work. I was overheated. I chased a shoplifter. I was abandoned. I committed a felony. _To help Molly carry furniture_?"

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

John pivoted on his heel and stalked away from the other two.

Sherlock looked at Molly who was obviously aghast at John's anger. "Not good, apparently," he said to her.

He looked after John once more.

"But no matter. I can carry it myself. Where are the elevators?"

 

\----------------------

John arrived home at 221B still stewing over the 'errand'. Not Mycroft. Not national security. Not even remotely illegal.

He stomped up the stairs, heedless of Mrs. Hudson's telly-watching schedule. He slammed open the door to the sitting room, slamming it shut again. He hung up his coat with an exaggerated gesture and continued stomping around.

 _Tea,_ he thought. _I need some tea_.

And here he had thought that he was being a prat to Sherlock when they had an important mission to accomplish. Something of value, of substance.

Carrying furniture for Molly.

John flushed once more at the absurdity of the whole thing.

He felt justified in his interpretation. After all, Sherlock had texted him in the middle of a shift to ask his assistance on crime scenes before. That wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

And perhaps Mycroft asking a favor wasn't the norm, but working together with him for the greater good was becoming more commonplace. He even dared to hope that he and Sherlock would get along better, making trips to Mummy's less awkward and prickly.

So how could John have known that this was an errand of a different caliber than the usual? How was he to know to say, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't drop everything because you have asked?

John felt the right fool.

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? It wasn't traveling through the department store. It wasn't the boredom or the frustration. It was that John had felt he was on a mission that turned out to be more a fool's errand than anything else.

It made him feel like he had been lied to. Perhaps not deliberately by Sherlock this time. But it was really the same effect, wasn't it? He had labored under a misapprehension. And he had made behavioral choices based on that misapprehension.

John wiped a hand across his brow and leaned against the kitchen counter as the water for tea heated up. He was tired. Perhaps after his tea he would take a long, hot shower and call it an early evening. Curl up with a book in bed. Try to forget today even happened.

The appeal of a shower sounded so good that John actually shut off the kettle to go directly to the bath. He turned the water temperature up as far as it would go. While he waited for it to heat, he stripped his clothes methodically, resolutely ignoring the twinge in his left leg.

John was reminded of how powerful the mind was over the body. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He wouldn't let this minor incident upset him this much. It wasn't really that big a deal in the grand scheme of things, was it? No. He, John Watson, was better than this.

He stepped into the tub in the beginning cloud of steam from the hot water. As soon as his skin started tingling from the heat, he knew that he had made the right choice. The soothing of tea was not enough right now. All of his muscles needed the patter of hot water.

He turned around after a minute to let the water run down his stomach. Then he turned his back to facing the water again, letting his head loll under the stream as well. He continued this for several minutes, rotating when one side became too cool outside of the heat.

After ten minutes, the soldier in him wouldn't let him stand idle under running water anymore. He shut it off and reached for his towel. He had been able to clear his mind quite a bit under the massage of the water. He continued to keep it clear and level as he scrubbed at the water in his hair.

Hanging his towel up again, he exited the bathroom directly into their bedroom. The cooler air prickled his skin, so he walked to the bureau to pull out a vest and pair of pants. He thought of the underwear model again.

 _No_ , he admonished himself, _don't think about anything to do with this afternoon. It's over_.

To further push his point home, he flopped face-first onto the bed, and buried his nose into Sherlock's pillow. The scent flooded his brain and triggered many, many good memories.

After a few minutes breathing in Sherlock's scent, he heard a timid tap on the bedroom door. He lifted his head to look at the closed door.

"Sherlock?" he called out softly. The door opened slowly to reveal the man himself. John couldn't help smiling his happiness that his partner was home.

"Not still angry?" Sherlock asked, leaning through the door with half of his body still in the hallway in case he needed to make a hasty retreat.

John laughed. "No, not still angry. Hot shower cured what ailed me," he assured Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up straight. "Not tea?" he asked.

John smiled. "No, not tonight."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, and his mouth made a little moue of surprise.

Sherlock had left his great coat in the sitting room, but he moved into the bedroom to remove his suit coat. He continued to undress while John watched and appreciated. Soon, the detective too was in comfortable nighttime attire. He crawled up the bed to snuggle into John's armpit.

He looked up into John's amused expression. "I'm sorry?" he offered.

John kissed him on the temple. "There's no need. In fact, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was a dickhead. I'm sorry I made assumptions. I'm sorry that I apparently have an ego to match yours."

Sherlock tightened his arm across John's chest, and John kissed his temple again.

"What a pair we are," John said after a moment of silence between them.

"Yes, it's a good thing we have each other," Sherlock said.

"I agree with you it's a good thing, but why is that?" John asked.

"Well if you don't know, I can't tell you, John," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Come here," John pulled Sherlock up on top of him for the kisses he had fantasized about earlier.

After John finally pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes and brush the hair off his forehead, he said, "I think I'll call this one 'The Case of the Mistaken Horror' for MH and for my imagined horror at buying underwear for Mycroft's imagined sweetie."

Sherlock looked at John carefully.

"I'm sure Lestrade can buy his own underwear, John," he replied.

 

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one originated when I was reading someone else's story. The author referred to MH, and my mind immediately went to Mycroft Homes. But it ended up being Molly. That was not the thrust of that story at all. But it gave me the idea for this one. 
> 
> And I thought, how would John like spending all this time in a store? If he's anything like most of the men I know, the very thought makes him techy.
> 
> So I hope that I surprised some of you. And in a good way. Not in the way John was surprised--with spittle and fit-throwing.


End file.
